How is my hair —
oppression and resurrection?
Augmented perceptions?
Revolutions?
Involuntary constitutions?
Wild contusions of fingers tangling abstractly into braids.
Ends burnt like sage.
My hair is a bird
and a cage?
Freedom
or a cave?
Something wild!
Or something to be tamed?
Makes white masses enraged,
and black men still enslaved to the idea of
white women as wonder.
So, my hair must be suppressed under.
Drowned beneath waves of weaves,
so she submerges herself every month
to maintain her white identity.
Alternatively, burning
boisterous
black afro ends of black babies
has become a ritual,
because Bantu knots are seen as…
too political.
So, you relax her
under relaxers,
because straight hair imitates:
Cleopatra,
Mona Lisa,
The Golden ratio.
Now she is worthy of a beauty standard
never made for shades of indigo.
So
in
she
goes..
to the salon
every month.
To commit
suicide.
Killing crevices of her identity, for which her ancestors died.
But now, with every stride,
she gets compliments:
a clean,
contained,
cosmopolitan black woman,
who is no longer a threat.
(Before, her colleagues were worried, right?)
What does her ‘natural’ hair mean?
Her BLACK PANTHER AFRO screams
she automatically likes to hang white people by the noose!
(Before, the aunties and mothers were worried, right?)
Her braids are too long;
she is trying to seduce husbands into temptation!
Her untamed mountain of mane means
she is not serious about life.
Did you see?
Her braids are colourful!
Oooh! She must go out aaall night…
When will the black woman’s hair not be a…
decodable,
diabolical
dictionary?
A…political Pictionary?
A…condemnation calligraphy?
The hieroglyphary upon which we must be hanged!
WHEN will the black woman’s hair not be augmented
to meet everyone else’s demands?
So, for once
and for all,
we pray:
release your hands!
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